My professor told me
to write the contents
of my own pockets
the lint
the coins
the stuff
not there
and I would find
what matters to me
the injustice
that I can’t explain
of why a half-eaten
bag of jellybeans
left only the blacks
and I want to say
I just don’t like
the bitter taste
but fear
the dark perception
of being called
racist
won’t let
me throw
them away.
What she doesn’t know
is there’s only
a curvy carroty
snake-like hook
of an ‘s’
between mother
and smother
where a good spit clean
always lasts too long
like braids too tight
in starched underwear
while overheard praise
becomes a mocking taunt
and who ever invented
the ‘kid-on-a-leash’
should be forced
to smile at her
and eat it.
Perhaps only my skin
knows the day
I turned old
as it sagged
with the sadness
of where it’s been
so readjust my legs
to a lifelike position
hold them in place
and my sagging gut
with further supports
let my abdomen rest
where the pins
now cross
but to be of scientific value
each specimen
must be accompanied
by information
include the location
day, month, year of its capture
the name or initials
of the proud collector
and another cemetery
is properly categorized
Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species
God pins me to the ground
labeled in stone
shown off for a prize
he perhaps
won’t win
He woke from
dreams clouded
with anti-matter
where tree limbs
morphed to octopi
and the line
at the bank
twisted with children
who clogged
the path
to his car
which he never
did find
and stumbling now
feeling no
skeleton
his remaining arms
grab for a suction cup
and the black ink
of coffee
is the only thing
that matters
The darkness
gave it purpose
so the lamp
with the fleur-de-lis
bent its light
and cast
more dead flowers
to the floor
not knowing
my shaking fingers
wet with tears
would pull the cord
and finally shock
the living daylight
through me
Grandma told me
vanity is a sin
of many single women
while I was innocently
unaware that my uncle
had a secret
till the heat of the day
forced him to reveal
what was under
the covering
of his social deceit
and I couldn’t help
looking
his back
covered in hair
and imagined
my aunt
brushing 100
and I suddenly decided
never to marry
and ran to the water
begging forgiveness
In the twinkling
of an eye
it must follow
as the night
the day
where the barefaced moon
and the myriad of stars
politely fade
as they undress today
with a hint
of blushing dawn
baring the indiscretions
of day’s rattling skeleton
that must be covered
and hung upon
the cheek of night
and cursed be he
that moves the bones
a true beginning
of the end
I may have known
the seductive song
but now rags
of shriveling skin
deceive my body
another clump of hair
clogs the drain
and I’m a siren
singing in water
trying to drown
my cracking voice
I wobble
with lascivious
contortions
ankle deep
on this island
with only a flimsy
curtain of days
to keep me
from crossing
the sea
Pollock threw
himself
into his paintings
dripping energy
like heat
from a fine
vodka
till the chaos
of what he felt
left us gawking
unsure of what
we know
to be art
or chicken scratching
and we jealously wish
that in one big bang
amid the viscous
flow of paint
we could tangle our hair
and let
ourselves
out.
A Minister and his wife
ironically named Young
sold 1930’s babies
from the Ideal Maternity Home
while the unwanted ones
were staved
on molasses and water
and they lay to rest
those butterbox babies
in wooden crates
from the local dairy
used as coffins
and hundreds
of backfield mounds
were born
on the backs
of weeping women
who unknowingly fed
the notorious couple’s
voracious appetite
for bread.